Crayola Lies
by FunbagsMcBooty
Summary: House and Cuddy hate each other, but the reason why is completely unexpected.


**A/N**: Probably leaving it as a oneshot.

* * *

I shouldn't feel guilty about this, but I do. Somehow being in his apartment without his permission makes me feel dirty, and it shouldn't. He did the same thing to me and probably for worse reasons. At least I had his best interests at heart.

Wilson was moving around in the living room as I pulled the drawer of the bedside table open. It was the same as the rest of his apartment; messy. I dug through the clutter for several minutes, only finding a few empty, orange bottles. It wasn't really a surprise, I'm sure he had more empty ones than filled.

"I found something!" Wilson's voice echoed through to me, and I lifted my head. Part of me felt relieved, but another felt a slight pain. I was hoping we wouldn't find anything, that my suspicions were wrong; that maybe I was just overreacting, but my luck had never been good.

I abandoned my search of his bedroom and made my way out to my accomplice, and he held out the bottle to me. My forehead wrinkled as I read the label, and I rolled my eyes.

"It's a prescription for Penicillin."

"Could be a decoy."

"And you could be more paranoid than I am."

I opened the bottle, dumping the pills into my hand. They were white, and the only distinction was that it had PVK 360 etched into the coating. I rolled my eyes to look up at Wilson, and slipped the meds back into the bottle.

"Maybe you should actually look before you start freaking out."

I pushed the bottle into his chest, and walked around him, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

"I've got the kitchen." I called to him over my shoulder just as I stepped into the small area.

My eyes moved over the counters, and I was surprised to see that they were actually clean. Apparently a dirty kitchen was one of his pet peeves because there wasn't even any grease on the stove. Of course that could have meant that he never actually used it, but somehow I doubted he ate out all the time.

I moved toward the cabinets, doing a quick search but found nothing other than the usual. He had maybe five glasses, and a few coffee cups; no bowls, paper plates, and a couple sets of silverware. It was a bachelor's pad if I ever saw one; which sort of surprised me.

He'd lived with Stacy for five years, and had no doubt spruced it up, but he'd obviously not appreciated it enough to keep up with it.

After searching all the drawers (and finding nothing but a few bills) I moved toward the fridge. The chances of anything being in there were slim, but addicts did crazy things. I held my hand out to grab the handle on the freezer, but quickly froze at what I saw.

My heart lurched into my throat, and I instantly felt tears welling up in my eyes. There on the freezer door was a colorful drawing of three people, the words 'Mommy, Me, and Daddy' scrawled above each person. Beneath the drawing was a photograph depicting a younger, happier version of House, an even younger version of me, and our son.

At that moment every memory filled me, and I felt emotions so strong that I nearly lost my balance. I remember that day (no matter how hard I tried to forget), I remember that phone call, and how numb I had felt. I don't remember the drive to the hospital, or anything House said to me as we stood outside of NICU, I don't even remember the name or face of the doctor that had told us there was nothing more they could do.

I blamed him, I still did. He had been driving, he had been up for thirty-six hours straight, and he had decided to take our son to day care instead of waking me up. It had all been his fault, and I could never forgive him for that.

He'd ruined my life in more ways than one. He couldn't seem to let me go, and that was why I couldn't stop loving him, at least that's what I told myself. How could I possibly love a man that was the reason I'd outlived my own son? How could he expect me to?

It was like he didn't want me to move on. He kept popping up in my life, and screwing things up for me. I'd lost count of the dates he'd purposely ruined any shot of love that I may have had, and had gone even one step further as to turn me off the idea of getting pregnant on my own.

He'd told me everything that could go wrong with not having a viable donor, and had even taken a jab at me in telling me that I would suck at being a mother. He had been in pain at the time, and was lashing out at anyone around him, but it hadn't made it hurt any less.

A part of me felt relieved to know that he still thought about what we used to have, but I couldn't help wonder why he hadn't tried to make up for it. He'd spent that past seventeen years making snarky, arrogant comments to me; making me feel worthless. What was the point? What did he want from me? I'd given him more than enough chances to make up for everything he had done, and he'd shoved it all right back in my face.

I suddenly noticed that I had been crying, and quickly wiped the tears from my cheeks. I was done, I couldn't handle this anymore. I quickly turned on my heel, making my way through the living room, and to the front door. I knew Wilson was probably confused by my quick exit, and I could hear him calling after me, but I couldn't stop now.


End file.
